


Hard to find, lucky to have (a ten song drabble meme)

by dishonestdreams



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, My Chemical Romance, Panic! at the Disco, Stargate Universe, Supernatural, Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Angst, Consent Issues, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Mind Control, Mind Manipulation, Mindfuck, Nightmares, Possession, Power Imbalance, Rape/Non-con Elements, Restraints, Smut, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-08
Updated: 2019-06-08
Packaged: 2020-04-23 03:27:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 10,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19142623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dishonestdreams/pseuds/dishonestdreams
Summary: 1. Choose a fandom (I didn't, I never do, I just go where the muse takes me)2. Set your ipod to shuffle (well, I did this to start with.  Then I finished while I didn't have my ipod with me, so ended up with prompt songs from other people.  I chose none of the songs though, so I figure it counts)3. Write a drabble based on the first 10 songs to play. You have until the song ends to write each one, no cheating. (Um, yeah.  I may have got carried away.  I regret nothing)





	1. Cold Blue in the Night (Supernatural)

**Author's Note:**

> Ten ~~drabbles~~ ficlets based on the following songs  
> 1\. Cold Blue in the Night (Sham 69) - Supernatural, Gen  
> 2\. Low (Foo Fighters) - Marvel Cinematic Universe, Clint/Loki  
> 3\. Sunburn (Muse) - Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Faith/Buffy  
> 4\. To Take You Home (Frank Turner) - My Chemical Romance, Gen  
> 5\. The Only Time (Nine Inch Nails) - Supernatural, Gen  
> 6\. Rain in Soho (The Mountain Goats) - Stargate Universe, Matt/Eli  
> 7\. The Hitman (Queen) - Supernatural RPF, Jensen/Jared  
> 8\. Bad Things (Jace Everett) - Marvel Cinematic Universe, Bucky/Darcy  
> 9\. Glide Dog (Phildel) - Panic at the Disco, Brendon/Spencer  
> 10\. Tiger Lily (La Roux) - Marvel Cinematic Universe, Bucky/Darcy
> 
> This got out of hand. That's all I'm saying. I should not be allowed to write things with the phrase drabble included in the title, because I really, really can't!

Dean hasn’t slept through a full night since he was four years old.

It started with fire. Half-forgotten memories of acrid smoke stinging his eyes and at the back of his throat, the overbearing press of blazing heat on his face, the image of a silent scream seared onto his eyelids and a barked, frantic order burning in his ears ripped him awake, night after night. He’d looked to his dad back then; desperate eyes scanning across darkened motel rooms for reassurance and sometimes that had worked out better than others. His dad had been different during the night; quieter and softer and sadder in the half-light, just a shadow of the hardened taskmaster Dean saw during the day and Dean has more memories of his dad’s calloused hand soothing sweat-damp hair away from his forehead and the low rumble of his dad’s voice easing him back to sleep than he knows what to do with.

He thinks it probably explains a lot about why he never left. When he thinks about it at all.

The nightmares changed over the years, even if the fear stayed the same. His mom faded, her features eroded by time into something indistinct and blurred only to be replaced by a face he knew better than he knew his own. The fires went out, flames doused and smothered under memories of darkened rooms where monsters lurked in every shadow. Night after night Dean watched as ghosts and ghouls, kitsunes and shtrigas, werewolves and witches ripped and tore, drained and crushed, eviscerated and mutilated his brother and, night after night, it tore him awake, sweating and gasping and needing, _needing_ , to just...check.

Sam never knew.

Dean never woke him, doesn’t wake him now. There’s no point; it is what it is and nothing his brother is going to do will change it (plus which, Dean doesn’t think he can take the inevitable guilt once Sam realises how it works and just how deep those four years away at Stanford actually cut). The pattern stays the same; he waits, quiet and wakeful, and watches for a sign. The huff of Sam’s breath, a shift under the sheets, the hint of a snore; something, anything, that lets him know it was just a dream, that tells him Sam will still be warm and alive and awake once the morning comes.

Dean’s a simple guy. Just like calluses and a whiskey-gravelled murmur, that’s really all he needs to sleep.

Reassurance.


	2. Low (Marvel Cinematic Universe)

“You’re not fooling anyone,” Natasha says, and Clint shrugs without looking at her. She’s been standing behind him for a while; quiet and watchful in that way she only does when she thinks he isn’t paying attention and he’s been wondering how long it was going to take before she put voice to whatever it is she’s thinking over.

_(You know too well the direction my thoughts take)_

“Pretty sure that’s not true,” he says mildly, “Stark and the doc look pretty distracted from where I’m sitting.”

Natasha huffs a breath and he feels the hint of a smile tug at the corner of his mouth. “Fine,” she says, “You’re not fooling _me_.”

Clint just hums; acknowledgement without assent, and lets his gaze linger on the cityscape below him. There’s a breeze now; a sting in the air that’s enough to make his eyes water if he turns his head wrong and he shifts a little.

“Talk to me,” Natasha says.

_(Tell me everything)_

Clint blinks, disrupting the picture displayed below him and swallows against the sudden constriction in his throat. The rooftop stone feels suddenly sharp under his curled fingers and he shakes his head in one quick movement, “Nothing to talk about.”

She’s moved closer now; he can catch the edge of her perfume on the air even with the breeze working against him, “Liar.”

“Nothing I want to talk about, then,” Clint amends because it’s only fair; he owes her that much.

_(Such a web she weaves around you, your spider)_

Natasha sighs, “That’s what worries me.”

Clint shoots her a sideways glance, brief and fleeting and nowhere near long enough for her to get a read on him, “Not my first rodeo, Tash.”

“This one was different,” Natasha says and Clint shrugs again.

“Aren’t they all?”

“No.” The denial comes out flat, brimming with a finality that brooks no argument. “You’re different. You’re quieter, more tense. Colder.”

_(You have heart)_

_(Shut **up** )_

Clint’s shaking his head before she’s even finished, “But I’m dealing with it.”

“Not really,” Natasha says bluntly, “You don’t sleep, you barely eat and I don’t remember the last time you exchanged more than a greeting with anyone, including me. That isn’t ‘dealing’ by any definition I’m familiar with.”

“Been spying on me, Tash?” The words come out uglier than he meant them to; harsh and accusing, and he hears her sharp inhale even over the roar in his ears as his pulse quickens.

“It doesn’t take a spy to see the blindingly obvious,” she says, with an edge to it that he never normally hears from her, and his own breath feels ragged and sharp in his chest. He almost wants to apologise, beg forgiveness, explain everything but...it’s complicated.

Too complicated.

“What do you want from me?” he says instead, and he can feel her scrutiny, almost as palpable as a touch.

“Let me help.”

_(You are no longer her concern)_

Clint winces, “You can’t.”

“Only because you won’t let me,” Natasha says, “It’s over. We’re only here because you can’t let it go.”

She’s not wrong, exactly, but she’s not right either. Clint knows it, can feel it down in the dark, secret places where he doesn’t like to look too hard for fear of what he might drag back out with him. He knows it, but he’s fucked if he knows how to explain it to her.

It’s not over. It’s barely even begun.

_(It could be. If you would let it)_


	3. Sunburn (Buffy the Vampire Slayer)

“I just knew you’d show up eventually,” Faith said delightedly, just enough of a wild gleam in her eye to set Buffy’s teeth on edge, “Now the gang’s all here and we can get on with the fun. You remember fun, right B?”

Buffy scowled. This was not turning into a good day. This day, in fact, sucked with a side dish of suck, and she was pretty sure there had to be _someone_ she could lodge a complaint with. Maybe _that_ was something the Watchers Council could be good for.

On second thought, maybe not.

“Are you serious?” she said, “How many times do I have to kill you before you just stay dead? Where are they?”

“Ouch,” Faith said mockingly, “Little tetchy there, B. Been a while since you got any?”

And, no. Just no. Buffy felt her jaw clench and her teeth grind together. There was no way this skanky-

“I’m not in the mood for this,” she warned, cutting down her own train of thought before it dragged her down into a full-blown bitchfest, “You want to tell me where they are, or shall we just jump straight to the part where I kick your ass and I _make_ you tell me?”

Faith’s eyes gleamed, “Bring it.”

Buffy wasn’t waiting for an engraved invitation, and she went in hard and fast with a flurry of blows and kicks that she’d practiced enough times for them to come without thinking. It was simple, or it should have been; she’d fought Faith often enough (sparring at first and then for real, later) that she knew she had the upper hand. They could all be home in time for dinner, with none the wiser.

Except...Faith was matching her. Blow for blow, faster and faster, and Buffy didn’t have a freaking clue how it happened but suddenly she was the one on the defensive, losing ground inch by inch despite her best efforts. 

“What the hell?” she gasped out and Faith smirked.

“Not been taking your vitamins?” she asked airily, and then she darted forward, too fast to follow, and Buffy saw the move a split-second too late to react. Faith’s elbow connected solidly with her neck and she felt herself stumble backwards against the wall, her vision swimming as she gasped and choked, trying desperately to drag in air through a throat that wasn’t co-operating.

It was all the opening Faith needed. Buffy tried to twist as Faith slammed against her but, with the wall behind her, there was nowhere to go. Faiths fingers wrapped like iron bands around her wrists and she twisted, backwards and up, to trap Buffy’s arms behind her back, with her hands pulled up toward her shoulder blades and Faith’s arms wrapped around her to hold them in place.

It was not how she’d expected this fight to go. It was also more than a little too close for comfort; this close she could almost taste their heady mix of fresh sweat and sweet fragrance and she could definitely feel the warm huff of Faith’s breath against her cheek.

“You miss the seminar on personal space?” Buffy said, just a hint of sarcasm under her words and she shifted slightly, just enough to test the strength of Faith’s grip on her arms. Faith might have the upper hand right now but there was no way Buffy was planning on letting her _keep_ it.

“High school dropout, remember,” Faith’s fingers tightened around her wrists, just enough to hurt, more than enough to warn, and Buffy stilled. Faith’s gaze darted across her face, intense and wildly focused, and Buffy tilted her chin and met it face-on with a glare of her own. Faith’s smile was slow and positively wicked, “Hey, you know, we could make this interesting.”

Something about that smile set Buffy’s stomach on a roll, and not in a good way. That smile promised things she had a horrible feeling she didn’t want to go anywhere near. “Do I even want to ask?”

“You trying to tell me you can’t guess?” Faith pressed a little closer, and her nose brushed against Buffy’s cheek. Buffy’s breath caught in her throat and she swallowed, “I told you before how fighting gets me and I don’t have a whole lot of food round here.”

Buffy’s eyes widened, “Oh my god, are you _insane_?”

Faith hummed thoughtfully, “Well, yeah, kinda. You can’t tell me the thought hasn’t crossed your mind though. I mean, a little slayer-on-slayer action? There’s no way that’s not hot as hell.”

“Yes, there is” Buffy said, and maybe it came out a little sharper and a little shriller than she’d meant it to, but come on. “There are lots of ways. Multitudes of ways. _All_ the ways. Get _off_ me.”

“But, B, you burn like the sun,” Faith murmured against her throat, “You got no freaking idea what it’s like, living in your shadow all the time. Kinda makes me want to mess you up, show you what it’s like down here with the rest of us.”

“Get off me,” Buffy hissed again and Faith laughed, low and mocking.

“Sure you don’t mean ‘get me off’?” she asked, and the shift of her hips was unambiguously deliberate, “C’mon B, live a little. Let’s get down and dirty like we mean it. You banged the undead, you can’t try and tell me your standards are _that_ high.”

“I draw the line at skank,” Buffy said, “And if you don’t get your hands off me, I’m gonna-“

“You draw the line at fun,” Faith cut in, “I should have remembered that.” The iron tight grip around Buffy’s wrists released and Faith stepped back, hands spread wide and open. She shot Buffy an infuriating smirk.

“C’mon then, Slayer. We’ll play it your way. Show me what you’re gonna do.”

Buffy didn’t need to be asked twice.


	4. To take you home (My Chemical Romance)

The sand burns like ice against his skin and Gerard shivers as he lets the grains slip between his fingers. It’s too late to be this far out, the blood moon glimmering against the desert with something that feels halfway between a threat and a promise and Gerard lets his hand slip to his hip unthinkingly, lets his fingers ghost across the reassuring bulk of the blaster strapped to his belt.

It’s too late to be this far out but it’s far, far too early to head back. If Gerard’s going to be honest with himself (and he tries to be, these days; god, he _tries_ ) it isn’t ever _not_ going to be too early to head back.

_They_ don’t want him there.

Gerard doesn’t blame them, not really. He thinks, maybe, if he was _them_ , he wouldn’t want himself there either. He’s a fuck-up; more than that, he’s _the_ fuck-up and there’s no denying it. It’s worse than that, because he thinks that _they_ could probably manage if that was all he was. Everybody’s a little bit fucked up out here and, sure, Gerard has refined it to an art form, but he’s only one man. _They_ are more than capable of dealing with one fucked up man and, if that was all it was, Gerard thinks he would already have turned tail and headed for home. That’s not all he is though, and that’s the problem. _He’s_ the problem.

And, right now? He doesn’t even know if he’s left anything or anyone behind to head back to.

He pushes himself up, sand crunching under his boots and stretching out as far as he can see to the horizon. Just a brief moment of doubt, just a swell in the sand, but nothing’s changed. 

He can never go home.


	5. The only time (Supernatural)

There’s a half empty bottle of Jack on the table telling Dean that this is a bad idea, but he’s never felt more fucking sober in his life.

“Well?” Crowley’s voice is loud in the silence and Dean has to stamp down hard on the urge to punch the bastard right in his sarcastically raised eyebrow. He’s got Dean over a barrel and they both know it, but like hell is Dean going to make it fucking easy.

“Well, what?” He says instead, shooting for disinterested and cocky and everything that tends to set Sam’s teeth to grinding, but falling short if Crowley’s expression is anything to go by.

Crowley rolls his eyes. “Really? You want to play this game? Here? Now?” He pushes his chair back from the table, the wooden legs shuddering across the concrete floor. “I’m a busy man, Squirrel. Places to be, souls to damn, you know how it is. Hell won’t run itself, after all, and if all you’re looking to do is waste my time, I can think of far more delightful ways I can do _that_ with a human than sitting here staring at your ridiculous face.”

“Alright,” Dean growls, too sharp and too raw, but he can’t just sit here and listen to this shit, he _can’t_. There’s too much at stake. 

Crowley smiles, bright as polished steel and sharp enough to slice, “I’m sorry, what was that?”

“I said, alright,” Dean says. “You know what I want. Let’s do it.”

“Come on now, Dean. I know you’re not as dumb as you are pretty,” Crowley’s smile twists into something a little crueller; something with claws and teeth that might bite and scratch if Dean doesn’t keep his head about this, “You want something from me, you’re going to have to use your big boy words and _ask_ for it.”

“Fine, _fine_ ,” Dean grinds the words out from behind clenched teeth and any other time, any other place, any other situation, he’d have already told Crowley to go fuck himself, but then, isn’t that the whole fucking point. If there were any other option, would he even fucking _be_ here? “But this is a one-time thing, you hear me?”

Crowley waves a hand expansively, “Of course, why wouldn’t it be? Isn’t it always?” He sprawls back in his chair, loose-limbed and relaxed, and raises his eyebrows expectantly, “Do go on.”

Fuck, Dean really wants to punch him. He stretches out his fingers on the tabletop instead, palms flat against the tacky formica, and takes a deep breath, “I want to make a deal.”


	6. Rain in Soho (Stargate Universe)

Eli skids as he comes around the corner of the corridor, his sneakers sliding against metal that’s slicker than he was expecting, and he goes down hard. His hands come out automatically to catch himself from landing headfirst on the floor. It might be a mistake; the jolt of the drop shoots painfully up to his shoulders even as he feels his palms tear against the rough finish on the ground and his left knee smack down with a jarring burn that suggests that he’s going to find blood under his pants when he checks the injury later.

It only takes him a second to realise that he’s already found blood; the slick on the floor is thick and viscous, deep crimson and unmistakeable. His stomach shifts queasily at the gory smears across his hand, and the tacky-wet feel of his pants leg against his skin. He _hates_ blood, always has, and he definitely hates it more when it’s not his and this is really, _really_ fucking gross…

…and he doesn’t have time for this. He needs to get his shit together, get moving again and work out how the fuck he’s getting off this ship. Seriously, assuming he makes it out alive, this is the absolute last time he’s agreeing to do any off-ship missions. He doesn’t care who asks him to come along.

Eli pushes himself back to his feet, wincing as the movement sends sharp twinges through his knee, and limps a few testing steps forward. It hurts like a bitch; a dull throb echoing behind the sharp sting that he’s now pretty certain means he’s broken skin (joy of joys, looks like Eli has a date with the quarantine bay once he makes it back to Destiny) but it doesn’t feel broken and he’s pretty sure he can shake it off with just another few minutes.

Which would be fine, except for the soft footfall behind him that means that he’s all out of minutes.

“There you are,” Matt says softly, and Eli winces. “We’re not done, Eli.”

“I am,” Eli mutters, and he doesn’t even glance back before he starts running, as fast as he can manage without his knee just buckling under the sudden pressure. He’s been training, preparing just in case of any off-ship missions over the last few months, and he knows he’s fitter that he’s ever been before, and the fastest he’s been in his life.

He’s also pretty sure that he’s not fast _enough_ ; he just doesn’t know what else to do.

The weight that slams into his back catches him off guard, propelling him forward and downwards with enough force to bounce his head off the floor with a sickening crack that makes his vision swim. Matt flips him efficiently before he has chance to clear his head and, by the time he blinks his eyeballs back into submission, Matt’s straddling his waist with his wrists drawn together and pinned to the ground above his head by one of Matt’s hands.

And really, Eli’s had fantasies that have started like this, but none of them have involved him being caked in someone else’s blood while his forehead throbs unpleasantly. He’s pretty sure he’s also never imagined that unearthly silver glow in Matt’s eyes.

“Let me go,” he says, and he is fucking proud of how steady his voice sounds.

“No,” Matt’s smile is all teeth, wicked with an edge of false charm. “I told you, we’re not done.”

Eli flexes his wrists against Matt’s grip, but it’s iron-tight. “I’m not helping you do this, this, whatever the hell it is you’re trying to do. Operate this fucking ship yourself. I’m out.”

Matt’s eyes flash, and Eli has to bite back a groan as his head throbs nauseatingly. “You’re not going anywhere,” he says, and his smile twists into something decidedly more predatory. “You can’t win, one way or another you’re going to do exactly what I tell you to do and it’s going to be a lot easier for you if you stop fighting me and just accept that.”

Eli’s mouth goes dry and he swallows uselessly with a throat that feels like sandpaper. “See, this is how I know you’re not Matt. Matt would never threaten me, you fucking imposter,” he says, as bravely as he can manage and _this_ Matt, this stranger with a familiar face and alien eyes, leans forward, closer and closer until he’s nose to nose with Eli and Eli feels his breath catch in his throat.

“I am Matt,” he says, “I’m just improved. Matt 2-point-0, if you like.”

“I don’t like,” Eli says immediately, and he tries really hard to ignore how much faster he’s breathing with Matt this fucking _close_. “I’ll take the downgraded version back, thanks.”

“Not an option,” Matt says, “And now you’re wasting time and I’m losing patience. So, here’s what’s going to happen. We’re going to get up, go back to the control room, and you’re going to get the navigation system back online. Understand?”

Eli stares at him, hard enough to make his own eyes cross given how close Matt’s face is to his own. “You’re insane,” he says flatly, “Which part of _I’m not helping you_ did you not understand from our conversation so far? I don’t care if you _kill_ me.”

Matt pulls back, tipping his head to one side as he regards Eli thoughtfully. “It isn’t you I’m going to kill,” he says and Eli feels his blood run cold.

“What?”

Matt smiles again and reaches out with his free hand to rub his thumb across Eli’s cheekbone. “You _do_ remember which system we brought back online before you had your little freak-out and decided to go for an unscheduled jaunt around this ship?”

“I, no,” Eli shakes his head, “I bought the defence system back online. I just made the ship less vulnerable. That doesn’t make sense.”

Matt shrugs. “Every linebacker knows that the best defence is a good offence. That defence system you brought back online also controls the ship’s weaponry.”

That couldn’t be true. Could it? Eli isn’t a fucking idiot; he would have noticed powering up the guns on this alien monstrosity. Wouldn’t he? Eli wracks his brain, trying to remember which systems he had seen power up, but that had been the same time that he’d seen Matt’s eyes, the first point he’d realised something was _really_ wrong and he can’t remember what the diagnostics had said. He can’t even remember if he looked.

“You’re lying,” he says, but his voice is higher than usual, edged with uncertainty and Matt’s smile widens again, his thumb brushing rhythmically back across Eli’s cheek.

“Are you sure?” he asks, “Because the weapons on this ship are an order of magnitude more powerful than anything _Destiny_ has to offer. That’s a big gamble to take with your friend’s lives, Eli. Do you think I’m lying when I say that I _will_ kill them if you don’t do as you’re told?”

Eli flexes his fingers under Matt’s hold, feeling the tacky tug of drying blood against his skin, and just shakes his head.

Matt stares at him searchingly, and Eli has wanted Matt’s attention for months, but not like this, not with this silvery haze that makes it not _Matt_. It’s enough that it makes his stomach clench, and he cuts his gaze to the side just so that he doesn’t have to see. He has no idea what Matt’s looking for, but after what’s probably only a few seconds but feels like a fucking lifetime, Matt clearly thinks he’s found it, because he gives one short, sharp nod. “Good. Then we’re going to get up, you’re not going to try and run, and we’re going to go back to work. For every minute that I think you’re wasting time, I’m going to power up the weapons and take a shot at your friends.”

“They’re your friends too,” Eli says, because he can’t _not_ , but Matt just shrugs.

“Needs must, Eli. You’ll understand soon enough.” He rolls off Eli, rising to his feet in one smooth movement, and holds out his hand. “Get up,” he says, and it sounds friendly enough, but it’s clearly not a request.

Eli does. But he doesn’t take Matt’s hand.


	7. The Hitman (Supernatural)

Jensen wakes up to the cold bite of handcuffs on his wrists and the heavy heat of a palm across his mouth. Under some circumstances, he can acknowledge that this wouldn’t be an entirely unpleasant surprise (as it happens, Jensen has some _very_ nice memories that have started almost exactly like this). Tonight, though, Jensen knows he’d gone to bed alone in an obscure hotel that he’s never used before.

So, the handcuffs and the hand? Bit of a problem.

It takes a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the darkness and he’s not sure if it’s late or early, but he’d left the curtains undrawn when he fell asleep and there’s enough residual light from outside to help him make sense of the play of shadows in the room. He can make out the bulky shapes of the furniture – the heavyset squat dresser, the looming wardrobe – and he can see the folds of his jacket which he’d slung carelessly across the chair when he came in. More importantly, though, he can see the outline of a man stretched out on the bed next to him, on his side and facing Jensen, with his head propped up by his free hand. His face is half-hidden by the shadows, but Jensen can see the glitter of his eyes which clearly show he’s been watching Jensen sleep

And, really, that’s probably where his attention should have gone first.

“You gonna scream if I move my hand?” The stranger asks, his voice low and honey-smooth, and Jensen rolls his eyes because, seriously, is this guy for real? He shakes his head, one quick movement, and the stranger pulls his hand back cautiously.

“Kill me or kidnap me?” Jensen asks as soon as his mouth is free, because either is an option, and he’s not really sure which direction this guy is heading. His instinct says _kill_ but that really doesn’t explain the handcuffs.

The stranger blinks, clearly taken aback. “What?”

“Are you here to kill me or kidnap me?” Jensen says, enunciating the words carefully, and the stranger snorts.

“Kill you,” he says, like it’s nothing, like it’s an errand. Buy some milk, do the banking, slit a guy’s throat. “But I don’t really want to. You’re too pretty for a bullet to the head.”

Jensen quirks an eyebrow curiously, “I didn’t think personal wants figured much in a hitman’s essential skills list.”

“No,” the stranger agrees, “But I’m not _really_ a hitman.”

“So, you’re just doing a pretty shitty impersonation of one,” Jensen says, and he thinks he should probably be a little more concerned than he is, but really? This guy? Jensen just _can’t_.

The stranger snorts out a laugh. “I guess so,” he says amiably. “Although that does leave me in a bit of a mess. Tell me something, Jensen Ackles, why would someone want you dead?”

“Because I fucked their wives, fucked their husbands, took their money, or publicly humiliated them,” Jensen says immediately, “So, you know, all the usual stupid reasons. People are pretty fucking predictable.”

The stranger hesitates for just a second. “You seem pretty sure about that,” he says slowly, and Jensen shrugs, a half-aborted movement thanks to the twist of his arms above his head.

“Not my first rodeo, cowboy,” he says.

“Is that why you’re not scared?” The stranger seems genuinely curious, and Jensen half-shrugs again.

“I’m not dead yet,” he says, “And, let’s be honest, your heart’s not really in this. I figure my odds are pretty good.”

“I think I should probably be insulted by that,” the stranger says, although he doesn’t _sound_ particularly insulted and this time it’s Jensen who snorts.

“What’s your name, cowboy?” he asks, because at this point he figures it can’t hurt to ask.

The stranger hesitates again, and just for a second Jensen thinks he might have pushed a little too far. Then he tips his head slightly, “Jared.”

Jensen does a mental fistpump. “Well, _Jared_ ,” he drawls, “Instead of worrying about feeling annoyed, how about we just agree that I’ll pay you double whatever you got to take this job in return for _not_ killing me. Then we talk about who hired you, how much _that_ information costs and what you _really_ want.”

Jared blinks again. “Are you serious?” he asks. “Why would you do that?”

Jensen grins. “I don’t want to die,” he says, “And, honestly, you’re just too cute to be a hitman.”


	8. Bad Things (Marvel Cinematic Universe)

Darcy’s back hit the wall with a thud and she groaned. “You are a bad, bad man,” she said, more breathless than accusatory and Bucky stepped into her space and leaned his forearms either side of her head. He was all heat and muscle, trapping her against the wall, and he caught a loose tendril of her hair between his fingers and tugged, just hard enough for Darcy to _feel_ it.

He grinned down at her and, fuck, Darcy both loved and hated the way that he could make her feel with little more than a look and a smile. “You know it, doll,” he said, a whiskey-gravel blurring the edges of his words, “You wanted a nice boy, you shoulda dated Stevie.”

Darcy rolled her eyes. “If I wanted a nice boy, I’d have stayed at Culver,” she said, “Found myself a nice little political scientist to settle down wi- _mpfh_.”

Bucky didn’t kiss like a nice boy and he wasn’t fucking around. He tangled his fingers in Darcy’s hair, letting him pull her head to exactly where he wanted it and his mouth on hers was almost like an attack; all biting teeth, fire and possession that made Darcy’s toes curl. She reached up blindly and grabbed hold of his shirt to pull him desperately, impossibly closer and Bucky growled against her mouth before he broke away.

“I don’t share, Darcy,” he said, his words vibrating against her lips and Darcy choked out a gasping laugh.

“Not even with nice _hypothetical_ boys?” she asked and Bucky’s eyes flashed.

“ _Especially_ not with nice hypothetical boys,” he said, and his hand not tangled in her hair dropped down between them to trace an infuriatingly slow trail up her thigh. “I don’t want anyone in your head except me.”

“Possessive fucker,” Darcy said, but there was no heat in it and Bucky smirked against her mouth.

“You love it,” he said with absolute certainty before he tugged her bottom lip back in between his teeth as his fingers slid up between her legs to press against her in just the right way to make Darcy want to _squirm_.

Bucky pulled back just slightly, close enough that she could still feel his breath, far enough that she could also see the wicked gleam in his eyes. “I think I want to get you off here, against this wall where anyone could see us,” he said, thoughtfully, and his thumb slid up to rub against the button of her jeans. “Then I think I want to take you home and see how many times I can make you scream before you pass out.”

Darcy dropped her head back against the wall with a groan. “Fucking _hell_ , Bucky. You can’t just say shit like that.”

Bucky smirked and flicked open her button. “Sure I can, doll. Didn’t you tell me? I’m a bad man.”


	9. Glide Dog (Panic at the Disco)

Brendon’s fucked.

Brendon’s fucked and lost and fucked again, and not in a good way. He turns on his heel, his gaze desperately casting over the trees in the hopes that he’ll spot something, _anything_ , that will give him even the faintest hint of how he’s supposed to get home, but it’s useless. Every tree and every bush looks painfully familiar and, at the same time, completely out of place. He’s not prepared to bet that he hasn’t already passed through this glade at least once.

The setting sun is casting a warm glow over the wood, deceptively inviting, and Brendon leans back against the closest tree and tries to get his heartbeat to slow from the desperate hammering that has taken up residence in his chest. It had seemed like such a smart idea, back home – a late afternoon trip to get the early pick of the mushroom crop before the whole village set out for them tomorrow – and he’d done the math, he knew he could make it to the crop glades and back before the curfew.

Or, at least, he could have. If he hadn’t got himself fucking lost.

It’s getting darker by the moment and Brendon’s all too aware that he’s wasting time he doesn’t have. He still has no idea where’s he’s going, but he’s not going to find his way out of the wood by sitting on his ass and maybe, if he’s lucky, he’ll stumble on the right way just by accident. His village is to the west, he knows that at least, so if he just heads toward the sunset, he has a reasonable chance, he thinks. As long as the path runs straight, anyway, and he has to try. The accords with the local wolves is very explicit. He can’t still be in this wood come nightfall. He _can’t_.

Brendon lets the thought trail off and pushes himself away from the tree. There’s still enough light to see which direction he should be heading and he turns toward the path that seems to offer his best option. And stops, his next breath choking short in his throat.

There’s a man on the path. 

There’s a man on the path, and Brendon’s _fucked_.

“Um,” he said, eloquent as fucking ever, and the man steps forward out of the shadow of the trees. He’s taller than Brendon and more heavily built, muscled where Brendon is scrawny and with blue eyes that burn in the fading light and Brendon realises with a start that he recognises this man. No, not man. Not exactly, anyway.

“Fuck, you’re Spencer Smith,” he blurts out and then bites down on his own cheek, hard, before he says anything particularly stupid. Of course Brendon wouldn’t just encounter any old wolf in the woods. Of course it was going to be one of the fucking pack leaders.

Spencer quirks an eyebrow and he glances upward at the long-reaching shadows cast by the slowly setting sun. “And you’re living dangerously,” he says, mildly.

“But I’m still good, right?” Brendon says, with just an edge of desperation. “I haven’t violated anything yet; we’re still okay?”

Spencer just hums; a non-committal sound that doesn’t really do much to settle the rapid flutter of Brendon’s pulse. “For now,” he says, “But you don’t have long left to scurry home, so I have to wonder, why are you here, waiting among the trees like you have all the time in the world?”

“Right,” Brendon says, “Okay, so, this is going to sound stupid but I’m kind of…lost?”

“Really?” Spencer murmurs, and he takes another step forward to bring him just that little bit closer to Brendon. Brendon has to fight off the urge to step back to match ( _don’t turn your back, **never** run from a wolf_). “Well, that’s a problem, isn’t it?”

“Maybe not?” Brendon says carefully. When Spencer shoots him a questioning look, he presses on. “I mean, you know where we are, right? You could tell me how to get out of the wood?”

“Possibly,” Spencer allows, and then he smiles, sharp and wolfish with just a few too many teeth to be friendly. “But what’s in it for me?”

“Well,” Brendon says slowly, and he’s trying so hard to ignore the way that Spencer is edging closer and closer, but it isn’t fucking easy. “If you help me get out of the wood, it means the accords stay intact. Nobody has broken any rules.”

Spencer shrugs, an easy, languid movement that makes Brendon’s hair stand on edge. “True. But if I _don’t_ help you, I still won’t have broken any rules and you’ll be the one whose rendered the agreement null and void. You do know what that means, don’t you?”

Of course Brendon knows what that means. Every schoolchild in the village had had it drummed into them from as soon as they were old enough to talk. The accords shared access to the wood; the villagers could be there by day, but they had to be gone by the time the sun dropped below the cover of the trees. In return, the wolves held the village itself as sacrosanct. If the accords were broken, well, then the village along with everything and everyone in it were fair game.

Brendon could potentially be about to condemn everyone he knows to death. Or worse.

“Yes,” he chokes out. “Spencer, _please_. I swear, I wasn’t trying to break the rules. I really would have had enough time to get out of the wood if I hadn’t taken a wrong turning somewhere and I know I’m a fucking idiot for getting lost in the first place and you’ve got no reason to help me, but I’m asking anyway.”

He’s reaching out before he realises he’s doing it, because Brendon never can just use his words when he can offer gestures as well and it isn’t until Spencer flicks his gaze down that Brendon catches himself. He freezes there, with his arm half outstretched, and fixes Spencer with the most hopeless, pleading gaze he can manage.

“Desperation smells good on you,” Spencer says, and the words send a shiver down Brendon’s spine. “What’s your name?”

“Brendon,” Brendon says, and he risks a glance behind Spencer’s head, toward where the sun is creeping ever closer to the treeline.

“You’ve still time,” Spencer says, and Brendon jumps, because he hadn’t heard him move, but Spencer is _right there_ , breathing his words directly into Brendon’s ear, and Brendon lets his hand fall uselessly back to his side.

“Only if I knew where I was going,” he says.

“That way,” Spencer nods toward a path to the right of the one Brendon had been planning to take. “Maybe a mile or so. You might even make it if you run.” He smiles again, sudden and no less wolfish than before. “Assuming I’m telling you the truth.”

Brendon isn’t sure he should ask, but as per usual, his mouth didn’t really wait for permission. “Why would you lie?”

Something flickers across Spencer’s expression, there and gone too fast for Brendon to read it, and he leans in, pressing his face into the crook of Brendon’s neck and breathing in deeply. “I like the way you smell,” Spencer says, “And I’m _hungry_.”

Brendon swallows uselessly, his mouth suddenly desert-dry. “Right. So, I should go?”

“You should run,” Spencer corrects him. “If you’re lucky, you’ll make it.”

“And if I’m not?” Brendon asks, because clearly _that_ was a line of thought that needed following, and he shifts uneasily on the balls of his feet, just enough that he could see Spencer’s face. 

Spencer’s eyes glitter in the near dark and his mouth curls into something close to amusement. “Then I’ll catch you.”


	10. Tiger Lily (Marvel Cinematic Universe)

It’s hot as fuck in the club; dark and sticky, the air ringing with the heavily pulse of the music as well as something deeper, more primal. The dance floor is little more than a writhing mass of bodies and Darcy can smell the vaguely nauseating mix of perfumes, cologne and fresh sweat, underpinned by something more cloying that feels like it’s coating her throat with a metallic, sweet sheen.

She hasn’t been to _Fang_ (which, ugh, really?) in almost two years, outside of work-mandated inspections. She hasn’t missed it.

She’s not working now; no active investigations open to her department, which means it’s the usual nine to five grind. Jane’s fucking delighted, of course. Active investigations distract her and she’d much rather spend the time focused on containment and cure. Darcy’s willing to bet her month’s salary that right now Jane is holed up with Bruce, working on fuck only knows what, and it’s an even wager whether _something_ will have exploded by the time she makes it back into the office tomorrow morning.

Not her problem though. The damages caused by the destructive duo are _way_ above her paygrade.

She catches the barman’s eye and signals for a refill. She’s not really sure why she’s still here, why she’s sitting in a club that she hates when she could be curled up on her couch in her pyjamas enjoying a Netflix binge. _Fang_ generally attracts two types of clientele; one human and the other… _not_ and Darcy’s neither. She scratches thoughtlessly at her wrist, fingers rubbing underneath the bracelets she always wears, before she realises what she’s doing and snatches her hand back.

It could be that she’s just bored. Darcy fucking hates downtime; too much paperwork and waiting around tends to make her palms itch after a while. _Fang’s_ usually a pretty reputable joint; they’re careful to stay within the law, but sometimes, well. There are always some that like to test the lines.

Darcy likes being the one to show them just how inflexible those lines really are.

The barman slides her glass, freshly filled, back across the bar and Darcy signals him to add it to her tab. He nods, unsmiling. Agents like Darcy aren’t banned from _Fang_ exactly, but it’s made pretty clear they aren’t welcome; it’s generally bad for business to have the authorities lurking around. She quirks an eyebrow at him, and she knows everything about her stance just oozes _zero fucks given_.

It’s pretty effective, if the way he scowls and turns away is any indication.

Darcy glances back at the dancefloor, but she already knows it’s a lost cause. Whatever she’s feeling at the minute, this fucking sense of disquiet, this idea that something’s isn’t her usual boredom itch. This is something else, a prickle at the back of her neck and down her spine that nothing seems to shake off and sitting alone in a fang-bang club isn’t doing anything to shift it.

Fuck it. Darcy downs her drink and pushes off from the barstool. Netflix it is. If she’s going to feel antsy regardless, she might as well be comfortable while she does it.

*****

Something’s off.

Darcy’s apartment is as dark and quiet as she expects it to be, but when she pushes the door closed behind her with an audible click, she’s left not with the comfort of home but with an undercurrent of tension that makes no fucking sense. Except that the itch at the back of her neck is intensifying, infuriating and insistent under her skin, and there is no way that’s a good sign.

There’s a table in her hallway that usually holds her purse and keys. It only takes Darcy a second to reach underneath it and wrap her fingers around the reassuring weight of the gun she keeps taped under there for emergencies.

It never hurts to be prepared. Darcy could have been a fucking Girl Scout.

Everything seems normal in her kitchen, and she moves through quickly, only stopping to spare a glance at the more obvious hiding spots, but her instinct tells her this room’s clear. The door to her lounge is closed and Darcy pauses, her hand just resting lightly on the wood.

She can’t remember closing this door when she left.

_You gonna stay out there all night, sweetheart?_

The question echoes in her ears without ever making it out into the room, heavy with taunting amusement and suggestion, and Darcy’s eyes widen, because, no. _Hell_ , no. She knows that voice and that voice should not be anywhere near her apartment and _definitely_ not in her head.

Protocol says she should call for back-up, but Darcy’s not an idiot. If he’s here, and he knows _she’s_ here, the only way she’ll have time is if he lets her. If he lets her, then he’s not worried about it.

And isn’t _that_ a fucking delightful thought?

It’s as easy to push the door open with her foot as with her hand, and since that leaves her two hands free to steady the gun, that’s what Darcy does. Her lounge mostly looks exactly the way she’d left it, barring two notable things. Firstly, the lamp on her coffee table had been switched off (because Darcy is mostly conscientious about saving the planet when she remembers, thanks) and secondly, there had definitely been no vampires hanging around in her apartment like they owned the fucking place.

Barnes is sprawled on her couch, indolent and unrepentant and exactly as she remembers him, all long limbs and easy muscle. “Hey Darcy,” he says, shooting her a slow smile that makes Darcy think of molasses, except that it’s more…toothy. “Missed you.”

This isn’t good. Barnes hasn’t been in New York for at least two years and, if he’s back, it’s pretty much a given that Rogers is either already here or hot on his heels. Looks like Darcy’s downtime is done; last time those two were in town, she’d pulled enough overtime to buy the couch that Barnes is currently taking up most of the space on.

Darcy’s boss may actually shit a brick when he hears about this.

On a more personal level, Darcy would have willingly volunteered to rip out her own right arm and beat herself to death with the gooey end if it meant that she didn’t have to meet up with Barnes again, _ever_. So, there’s that.

“Get out,” Darcy says flatly, and she shifts her aim just enough that the sight on her gun is lined up with exactly the spot where his heart should be. “You’re not welcome. Invitation rescinded. Fuck off.”

“Darcy,” Barnes says, and his tone is mockingly reproachful. “You wanna get an unwanted guest to leave, doll, you gotta do it _right_.”

“Pretty sure I did,” Darcy mutters under her breath, and Barnes’ eyes narrow, his whole demeanour shifting from that carefully sculpted nonchalance that really _pisses Darcy off_ to a focused interest that makes her breath stutter in her chest.

“Did you, now,” he murmurs, and his gaze flicks, almost imperceptibly, to her wrist. “Well, isn’t that…”

_“…interesting.”_

“No, no,” Darcy says, and it’s explosively loud in the room, like a gunshot. “ _Fuck_ no. You do _not_ get to go poking around in my head. This thinking space in closed to you, Barnes.”

_“Awww, doll, don’t be like that.. Last I checked, you and me were on first name terms.”_

Darcy scowls. “You have noticed the gun I’m pointing at you, right? The gun full of give-a-vamp-a-bad-day slugs?” she says. “Don’t think for a second I won’t shoot you in the chest.”

Barnes leans back, sinking into her couch cushions, and spreads his arms wide. “Try it.”

Darcy is a consummate professional. She absolutely, one hundred percent does not take delight in dusting vamps. That being said, for Barnes, she is prepared to make an exception. She’s only human (thank _fuck_ ), and she’s happy to call out anyone who claims they wouldn’t get at least a little bit of satisfaction from wiping that smirk right off his face.

…and she’s not quite clear on why she hasn’t pulled the trigger yet.

She narrows her eyes, giving him the filthiest look she can muster, and tries again.

Her hand doesn’t even twitch.

“Well, would you look at that,” Bucky murmurs. “Ain’t that a thing?”

“What did you _do_?” It comes out with more a screech than Darcy had been intending, but under the circumstances? She’s entitled.

Bucky shrugs and then looks pointedly at her wrist. “Nothing you didn’t agree to, sweetheart. You know as well as I do, bonding’s a two-way street.” 

Darcy throws her gun at his head.

In retrospect, she can be the first to admit that it might not have been her smartest move to date – all things being equal _I’m-still-armed-and-fabulous-even-if-I-can’t-shoot-you_ still beats _Take-my-only-weapon-for-your-nefarious-purposes-evil-overlord_ – but, honestly, if he’d wanted to kill her, she’d be dead already, and it is really fucking satisfying to know that she’s not completely defenceless against him. It would have been more satisfying if she’d been able to smack it off the side of his thick skull, but Barnes has annoyingly fast reflexes, and he plucks it out of the air seemingly without any effort. 

Next time she’s aiming for the back of his head.

“Pretty sure I’d remember that, _asshole_ ,” she says, tartly. “My last memory of you is that I was trying to put your ass under arrest and you were hightailing it out of Dodge with your tail between your legs.” She sighs dramatically. “Good times.”

Barnes leans forward on the couch, elbows on his knees and his expression intent. “And the time before that?”

Darcy’s wrist itches.

“Oh, hell no,” she exclaims. “Yes, I agreed that you could get a little toothy, because I am a fucking professional and I do what needs doing to get the job done, but I definitely did _not_ tell you that you could get us…” The words escape her and she waves a hand between herself and Barnes emphatically, “… _vampire-married_.”

“Oh, but you did, Darcy.” He’s laughing at her, a little wild and a little mean and it sets Darcy’s teeth on edge. “I’ll admit, I might not have been _entirely_ specific about what I was asking for, but you said yes anyway. That’s on you, doll.”

Darcy gapes at him, eyes wide, because no way.

No _fucking_ way.

A _technicality_? Vampires were the _worst_.

“But you knew,” she says, and Barnes tilts his head with what has to be fake curiosity, because she knows he knows what she’s talking about. “You knew I was undercover; you busted my op at the last minute, which, by the way, fucker. Why on _earth_ would you bond us?”

Barnes’ smile is downright hungry. “Thing about living forever is it makes you all about the long play. I got plans for you, honey.”

Darcy’s in his face in a heartbeat, her fingers fisted in the soft cotton of his shirt and close enough that looking at him is enough to make her a little cross-eyed. “I am _not_ your goddamn puppet, Barnes. I might not be able to shoot you right now – and believe me, I will be having some very detailed conversations with _people_ about how we can fix that, like, yesterday – but if you think for one second that means I’m going to roll over while you cackle like a deranged comic book villain, you’re in for some serious disappointment.”

Barnes raises one brow questioningly, and he’s going for unaffected, but Darcy can see the way his pupils have dilated and, no lie, she’s totally judging him for that (even if she is pointedly ignoring her own rapid breaths and the way her wrist has started to throb now that she’s this much closer to him. She’s just pissed, that’s all).

_“Whatcha gonna do about it?”_

“Urgh,” Darcy snatches her hands back like his shirt is on fire. “You’re a pig, Barnes. I’ll think of something and it will be fucking _epic_.”

Cool fingers wrap firmly round her wrist, stopping her from pulling back any further, and Darcy’s heartrate kicks up a notch as Barnes’ thumb brushes across the small scars hidden under her jewellery.

“I’m looking forward to it,” he tells her, an undercurrent of honesty in his tone and Darcy just blinks at him, because that…wasn’t really the response she had been expecting (whatever, she’s still going to fuck his shit up). “While we’re waiting on that though, tell me, what do you know about vampiric mythology?”

“Who for the what now?” Darcy shoots him her best innocent expression at the same time as she surreptitiously twitches her wrist to check his grip on her. From the way his fingers tighten, she thinks she maybe wasn’t as subtle as she’d hoped.

_“You do realise I could just check what you know for myself?”_

“Know it, ignoring it, and again, stay the fuck out of my head,” Darcy says, immediately.

“No,” Barnes says easily and Darcy fucking hates this. Hates the way he’s looking at her, like she’s the butt of some joke that only he knows the punchline to; hates that he can make her feel so _helpless_ with so little effort; hates that he can get inside her head and under her skin with little more that a brush of his finger and a twitch of his lips.

She tugs again at his hold on her wrist. “Let go of me.”

“No,” Barnes says again

“What do you _want_ , Barnes?” she says, tiredly, and his mouth curls with amusement, just enough for the light to catch and glint on the tips of his fangs.

“Told you, doll,” he says, “Got plans for you.” 

Darcy cuts him off with a shake of her head. “No,” she says. “Tonight. What do you want from me? Why are you here? Why won’t you just leave, or…or… or bite me, or _something_?”

She trails off, because what the fuck else is she supposed to say. He’s just _here_ , sitting on her couch and watching her and being entirely the same enigmatic asshole she has always known him as. Sure, he’s bonded her (and Darcy’s not going to get over how much that _creeps her out_ anytime soon) and that gives him a vested interest, but she’s seen vampires rip out the throats of bonded humans who’ve irked them without a second thought or a shred of remorse. She’s not an idiot; she knows she doesn’t mean _anything_ to Barnes regardless of their history. Hell, that feeling’s mutual, because as far as Darcy’s concerned, he’s just an open casefile; a blot on her record that’s like an itch she can’t scratch. 

Cool fingers wrap around her free wrist and her attention snaps back to him in a heartbeat. He’s still fucking _staring_ and he smirks when she meets his eyes, before he _pulls_. Darcy wants to pull back, but she’s got nothing on his strength. He’s an irresistible force and he doesn’t stop until he’s pulled her completely into his space with her wrists twisted behind her. She ends up on the couch straddling his lap, her knees bracketing his hips and close enough that her breath is enough to stir his hair.

Barnes shifts his grip until he has both of her wrists caught in one of his hands, his thumb still pressed firmly against the scar from his bite and he reaches up with his free hand to sink his fingers into her hair. His nails scratch lightly over her scalp and Darcy shivers reflexively.

“I can do something,” he murmurs, and then he’s kissing her, hard and insistent and Darcy’s brain pretty much short circuits because he hasn’t changed; he still kisses as intensely as she remembers. His mouth is demanding on hers; the swipe of his tongue against the seam of her lips insisting that she open up for him, and he uses the hand in her hair to angle her head exactly where he wants it. 

Darcy holds out until he sinks his teeth into her bottom lip; the sharp sting of his fangs drawing an involuntary gasp out of her that he immediately takes advantage of. He claims her mouth, the kiss turning hot and wet, tinged with a coppery edge that makes Darcy’s stomach churn when she realises it’s her own blood that he’s catching and passing back to her as his tongue curls against hers.

Barnes growls against her mouth, the sound buzzing against her lips, hatefully delightful, and Darcy clenches her fingers into a fist uselessly before she does that only thing she can think of.

She bites him back, her teeth sinking into his lower lip without managing to break the skin, and he hisses, his fingers tightening reflexively around her wrists and, yeah, Darcy’s going to have bruises tomorrow.

She’d wanted to piss him off, but Barnes’ laugh echoes in her head. _"Careful,”_ he warns, and Darcy can feel his amusement resonating through her veins. _”I don’t think you’re ready for where that goes.”_

 _”Fuck you,”_ she thinks back at him, savagely, and Barnes lets out a delighted, barked laugh into her mouth.

 _”There you are,”_ the words are more of a purr than anything else, sinful in the secrecy of her head. _”Stop fighting me.”_

 _“Never,”_ It’s her denial, but Darcy can hear more in it. It’s a refusal, sure, but it’s also a promise.

And a challenge.

 _“Really?”_ Barnes voice is a low drawl, the syllables sinking like syrup through her synapses. _“Big mistake, doll.”_

Darcy has one brief moment to regret that she ever came home tonight, because she _knows_ she’s not going to like whatever is coming next. Then he opens the floodgates, and Darcy is suddenly drowning under a cacophony of sensations and emotions which aren’t her own.

Their kiss had stalled during their brief telepathic conversation, little more than a still press of lips against lips and shared breath, but now Barnes reclaims her mouth and he’s not fucking around. His kiss is closer to an assault now; hard lips and biting teeth but Darcy is barely even aware of it. All she can feel is _Barnes_ ; his possessive desire lodged into the base of her skin, his sense of vicious triumph ringing in her ears and a burning fury that rips the breath out of her lungs. Interspersed with that is his awareness of her; a terrible, consuming feedback loop that echoes her own helplessness and disgust, along with a desire that she doesn’t want but can’t ignore like this, ringing through her mind until it feels like she’s being deafened by herself.

And underneath all of that, a deep, consuming hunger that beats in time with her pulse and resonates through her blood.

Darcy rips her mouth away from Barnes’ with a bitten-off sob that she can’t suppress, and her fingers scrabble desperately against the air with nothing for purchase. “Stop. Fuck, _stop_.”

Barnes drops his head to nuzzle her throat and his tongue slides, rough and wet, across her pulse point. “Ask nicely.”

“ _Please_ ,” Darcy chokes out, because she has to, this has to, she _can’t_. Dimly, she’s aware of Barnes’ smile; a small, secretive thing pressed against her skin.

And suddenly, abruptly, it stops. Darcy’s alone in her own head; vast empty spaces which had been drenched in Barnes’ just a second before. Her own emotions, muted after the intensity of his, are all she can feel and the only sound filling her ears is her own harsh, panicked breathing.

“Deep breaths,” Barnes murmurs, the scrape of his teeth across her pulse point as he speaks enough to drag a shudder out of Darcy. “You’re alright.”

It’s Darcy’s turn to laugh, but there’s no humour in it; it’s a dark, harsh bark that’s closer to a sob, because he’s wrong. She’s not alright; she’s so far from alright that it might as well be in a different time zone. She feels disgusting, filthy right to her core, and she really, _really_ needs him to stop _touching her_.

“Let me go,” she says again, and it comes out as more of a request than a demand this time. Then, in case it makes a difference, she adds, “Please.”

“See, isn’t that easy?” Barnes says, but Darcy isn’t listening, because he’s released his hold on her hands and her hair and everything in her is screaming to get the hell away from him. She scrambles off the couch and across the room in a heartbeat, fumbling in her pocket for her phone as she goes.

She should have raised the fucking alert the second she’d realised he was here.

He must know what she’s doing; Darcy knows she’s not being subtle about it, but he doesn’t move. If anything, he looks…amused, and that’s enough to make Darcy shiver again.

“You need to leave, Barnes,” she says, calmly as she can muster, and his eyes flash with irritation.

“Bucky,” he says, and it’s _definitely_ a warning. “I think we’ve moved beyond those kinda formalities, don’t you?”

“Fine,” Darcy says, because she just wants him fucking gone. “You need to leave, _Bucky_.”

“All you had to do was ask, doll,” he tells her, before he stretches himself up from her couch, Darcy watches him warily as he crosses the room, and she’s almost vibrating with anticipation, but he makes no move toward her. “Catch you later, _Keres_.”

“I’m going to kill you,” Darcy says, suddenly, and it’s a promise, although she doesn’t know where it comes from and why she’s not just letting him leave. It seems important to say and she digs her fingernails into the palm of her hands as her words ring out in the room.

He pauses in the doorway and looks back at her, with just a ghost of a smile. “You think you are,” he says, “But that’s okay. I’m going to save you from yourself, Darcy.”

He’s gone before she can reply, which Darcy’s kind of grateful for, because she has no idea what the _hell_ she’s supposed to say to that.

She wraps her arms around her middle and rocks back on her heels for a second, before she tugs her phone back out of her pocket, thumbing down her contact list until she finds a name she’d never expected to use again. Her thumb hovers indecisively over the call button before she hits it.

The call rings for what seems like forever before there’s a click, and a gruff, painfully familiar voice says, “Yeah?”

“It’s me,” Darcy says, and it’s probably testament to why she never deleted that number that she doesn’t need to elaborate.

There’s silence on the other end of the line for a long moment and Darcy half wonders if she’s been cut off, and then she hears, “Why?” 

“I’m sorry,” Darcy says, because she is, because they’d made a promise and she’s breaking it. “I need your help. Does the name _Keres_ mean anything to you? At least, I think it might be a name.”

“Don’t you have co-workers for that? Go bug them.”

Darcy takes a deep breath. “I can’t,” she says. “Apparently, I got bonded.”

There’s another too long silence, and then it’s broken by a deep sigh and Darcy feels something in her chest unlock at the sound. “Tell me.”

Darcy smiles. Fuck Barnes and his plan, because one thing is for damn certain. She is not going to make this easy for him.

“Thanks,” she says, and she means it. “Now, settle in, because this might take a while.”


End file.
